


The Under the Ice Affair

by Garonne, loxleyprince



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2016-04-17
Packaged: 2018-06-01 09:59:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6513580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Garonne/pseuds/Garonne, https://archiveofourown.org/users/loxleyprince/pseuds/loxleyprince
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illya and his team of agents are stranded north of the Arctic Circle, and the only way Napoleon can get there is to commandeer a submarine and go under the polar ice cap. </p><p>As he races north, Napoleon is preoccupied by the thought that this may be one of their last missions together before they retire from the field.</p><p>With illustrations!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Act I: The Silent Service

**Author's Note:**

> Collaboration between Garonne, who wrote the text, and Loxleyprince, who made the art.
> 
> _Notes from Garonne:_
> 
> This fic owes an enormous debt to Alistair MacLean's Ice Station Zebra, both the book and the film. The idea of using a submarine to break through the ice on a rescue mission is directly lifted from there. It's also the film that got me watching MFU, indirectly. As a child I was both intrigued and frustrated by the friendship and partnership between the British agent and the Russian agent in the Ice Station Zebra film (not the book). I didn't like how it was handled and I started watching MFU hoping I'd find what I'd been missing -- which I did!
> 
> Making Illya an ex-submariner is how I reconcile Illya being in the Navy and Illya being subject to horrible seasickness :) I think it's a fairly widespread piece of fanon.
> 
> Two things I enjoyed most about this fic: I love submarines and always wanted to write a fic about Illya on a submarine, and I got to collaborate with loxleyprince again!
> 
> A huge thank you to laurose8 for beta-reading.

  
  


  


**Act One**

_The Silent Service_

Napoleon was wrapped up in arctic furs, and dangling on the end of a rope. The helicopter was fifty yards above him, the submarine was fifty yards below, and the icy waters of the North Atlantic were just a slip-up away.

But the helicopter crew were experienced UNCLE airmen, and they lowered him smoothly until steady hands caught him, and he was pulled to safety on the submarine's bridge.

There were three sailors waiting for him there. Without ceremony, they hurried him out of his harness and then bustled him down into the submarine. No one wanted to stay up top in the sub-zero temperature for longer than necessary.

At the bottom of the ladder, Napoleon found himself in the control room. Above him, the last man in pulled the hatch shut behind him with a clang.

The room was a cramped, dimly lit hodgepodge of men and machinery. Huge bundles of cables snaked overhead, metal pipes hung low, and dials and levers covered every available surface. Napoleon knew HMS Neptune was a Resolution-class nuclear submarine, captained by Commander George Tallens and with a complement of a hundred and twenty men. That was all the briefing he'd managed to get before leaving Oslo in a hurry last night.

And Commander Tallens himself must be the tall, heavyset officer currently sizing Napoleon up.

"So you're the man from U.N.C.L.E.," he said, not sounding particularly pleased about it.

Napoleon fished around inside his multiple layers of fur and oilskins for his identity card, and the papers promising him every cooperation from the Royal Navy, negotiated by UNCLE's London chief and signed by the British ambassador in Oslo.

"Napoleon Solo," he said, handing the papers over with a flourish.

The captain spent a long time examining them, his heavy black eyebrows drawn together in a frown. Napoleon waited patiently. He needed Tallens' willing cooperation, if he were to find Illya, Cairns and Hagen alive.

Around them, the control room was filled with the sounds of preparations to dive, orders echoing into the distance as they were repeated down the chain of command. Napoleon loosened his arctic furs, starting to feel overheated in the close confines of the submarine.

Finally, Tallens looked up.

"Wyatt, you have the conn. Follow me, please, Mr Solo."

Napoleon followed him to a tiny room, both cabin and office, just big enough for the two of them to stand. Tallens shut the door behind them, and turned to Napoleon, still frowning.

"My orders are to provide you with every assistance, Mr Solo. However, I warn you that the safety of my boat and crew must come first."

"Of course, sir."

"This -- " He held up the letter of introduction, " -- tells me no more than what I already knew: I'm to take you at top speed under the icepack, break through the ice and surface north of Svalbard, and then assist in a rescue mission there."

"Three of my agents are trapped on the ice."

Tallens' eyes narrowed.

"This isn't the first time I've had to work with one of you cloak-and-dagger fellows, you know. I suppose it's too much to ask what your agents were doing on the Arctic ice pack in the first place?"

Napoleon brought out his best rueful yet engaging smile.

"I'm afraid I can't tell you that, no."

Tallens gave him a long, considering look. 

Napoleon couldn't blame him for his reticence. From Commodore Tallens' point of view, he was being ordered to take a foreign agent on board and give him free rein of the boat. Napoleon suspected Tallens would have been fine with a US Navy man, but an agent from UNCLE was an unknown quantity to him.

Finally, the captain seemed to come to a decision.

"I suppose I'll have to learn to live with that, then, won't I?" he said dryly. He paused, and then added in a rather different tone, "That doesn't mean I won't do everything in my power to help, Mr Solo. As much as if it were my own men up there on the ice. Though -- you must know their chances of survival are not very high, unless they're extremely well equipped."

Napoleon kept his voice perfectly steady when he answered.

"We know that, yes."

Tallens opened the cabin door and called out for someone called Bill.

"Lieutenant Foyle will take care of you, Mr Solo."

Foyle was a cheery-faced young man with a shock of bright red hair and his arm tightly bandaged.

"So you're an American?" he said as soon as he'd heard half a sentence from Napoleon's mouth.

"Guilty as charged," Napoleon said easily, forcing himself to push aside his worries and turn on the charm. He was kept busy trying not to bump his head on low-hanging pipes and valves as he followed Foyle along the submarine's narrow corridors.

"We didn't know what to expect, with UNCLE," Foyle added. "I hear you've got East Germans, Russians, everything."

"That's right."

Foyle whistled.

"Must be funny, working so closely with them."

"It's always turned out pretty well for us." 

"And you travel a lot too, I suppose? Breakfast in Paris, lunch in Rome, dinner in Hawaii?"

"Well...sometimes it's breakfast in Nowheresville, Nevada, and a ration bar for dinner in the Appalachians."

Foyle laughed.

"How disappointing. You're destroying my illusions, Mr Solo. I was picturing something much more exciting -- you know, like James Bond in that film 'Dr No'."

"I'm sure life on a submarine is rather more exciting," Napoleon said with a smile.

Foyle held up his arm.

"This was the most interesting thing to happen to me recently -- slipping and spraining my wrist."

They had finally reached their destination, after a journey through a bewildering series of metal ladders and watertight hatches. 

"You're in here," Foyle said, pushing the door open.

It was one of the officers' staterooms, a tiny space about five feet across. According to Foyle, it was shared between the first lieutenant, and -- before Napoleon displaced him -- the Torpedo Officer.

"I'll come and get you in half an hour or so," Foyle promised before leaving him.

In the narrow space between the bunks, Napoleon stripped off his foul-weather gear, and folded it carefully to fit it into his locker. He also stowed his UNCLE communicator, which would be no use under water, and his gun.

The cabin was sharply canted as the submarine dove, and Napoleon wondered briefly just how deep under water they already were. He wasn't claustrophobic, of course. He'd long since given up counting the number of times he'd hidden or been trapped in dungeons, closets, packing cases, tea chests and the like. Not to mention a coffin, on one memorable occasion. But being so far under the ocean still gave him pause for thought. He couldn't help feeling like a thin metal hull was the only thing keeping them from being crushed to death by tonnes of water.

This was the first time he'd ever been on a submarine. Illya had spent several years on one, but he rarely spoke of it. The most Napoleon had heard was a few funny stories about accidents with the sewage tanks, and the pranks played by men who'd been underwater for weeks on end and were going stir-crazy.

Thinking of Illya only reminded him of his partner's current plight.

Napoleon had been in Amsterdam, on the way to the airport and his flight to New York, when Waverly told him to divert to Oslo instead. That was when he'd discovered Illya was no longer laid up in New York recovering from a nasty fall, but had been sent to northern Norway on the strength of a tip-off from one of their moles in THRUSH.

"A secret recording made at the most recent THRUSH council meeting," Waverly had explained over the secure line, sounding unusually animated. "Not the meeting itself -- we already have a good idea of what was said there. This is a recording of private discussions between the council members. That's where the real decisions are being made."

"Sounds almost too good to be true," Napoleon said doubtfully, but inside he was starting to feel as excited as Waverly surely was. The chance for UNCLE to get its hands on something like this only came up once in a lifetime.

The council meeting had been held in one of THRUSH's remote strongholds in the Saltfjell mountains. The mole had agreed to wait for the UNCLE agents in the village of Rognan, the nearest port. The mission had been a success, in the sense that Illya and his team had retrieved the recording they came for. But there had been...complications. Napoleon still didn't know the details, but Illya's team had ended up trapped on a tiny island north of Svalbard, well within the Arctic Circle. And this being late February, the ice pack was almost at its maximum extent, and the island was sealed in for miles around by thick sea-ice.

"It would take more than a week to get up there over land, sea and ice," Oslo's regional chief Mikkelsen told Napoleon when he arrived. They were sitting in his office, in a high building overlooking the fjord. "They must have flown there, somehow, but since then a storm has set in that's due to last a week or more. And, according to the last communication we received when they were still in Rognan, the recording contains some particularly important and time-sensitive information."

The professional part of Napoleon's brain was busy processing this new information. But his hind brain was imagining Illya and the others, huddled together in a snow storm, slowly freezing to death.

"What about our three men? Do we know what kind of condition they're in? What kind of equipment they have with them?"

Mikkelsen shook his head with a grimace.

"The only reason we know they're there at all is thanks to our mole in THRUSH's Norwegian operations, but we don't know much more than that. Not even whether they were deliberately abandoned there, or whether they were trying to escape from someone or somewhere." 

Napoleon rubbed his face, deep in thought, his mind racing through and abandoning different ideas. There had to be some alternative to the long, arduous, overland trek.

"I was thinking...there is one possibility," Mikkelsen said. "A submarine could go under the ice and then break through near the island."

Napoleon stared.

"A submarine?"

"Which we don't have, I know. But I've been working on that since this morning."

The next few hours had been nerve-wracking. For a while, it looked like they wouldn't be able to get hold of a submarine -- and only a handful of the world's submarines were capable of staying under the Arctic icepack.

Waverly had pulled it off somehow, though, along with Carstairs in London, and here Napoleon was on board the pride of the Royal Navy, one of Britain's first nuclear submarines.

He sat down on his bunk. Still over twenty-four hours' journey to Svalbard, he was thinking, when there came a knock on the cabin door.

Less than ten minutes had passed since Foyle had said he'd return in half an hour. Napoleon stamped down the instinct to answer the door with a gun in his hand. He was on a submarine in the middle of the Atlantic ocean, surrounded by friends, and this was presumably just one of the cabin's usual occupants. Besides, he had casually avoided telling Tallens he was armed.

"Come in," he called.

It was Foyle, carrying a radiation badge and a gas mask.

"Forgot to give you these," he said cheerfully. "Wear one and keep the other in your bunk."

"Ah -- thank you."

"And the skipper says if you want to send or receive radio messages, we'll come to periscope depth again in six hours."

The one person Napoleon most wanted to speak to had been out of reach for two days now, but he would take the opportunity to contact Waverly and Mikkelsen. When he'd left Oslo Mikkelsen's men had been working on tracking down what happened to Illya's team. And if Napoleon knew more about the circumstances of their disappearance, maybe he'd know whether there was any chance of finding them alive or not.

.. .. ..

Napoleon woke with a start. His brain quickly filled in the details of this unfamiliar place: Royal Navy submarine, officers' stateroom, bunk. Cabin door open, man's silhouette outlined against the light outside -- presumably the cabin's other occupant.

Napoleon drew his hand out from under his pillow, leaving the gun behind.

The newcomer noticed the movement, and stopped trying to creep around making no noise.

"Mind if I switch on the light?"

"Go ahead," Napoleon said.

The man revealed in the flood of yellow light was short and serious-faced, middle-aged, and with a steady, dependable air. Napoleon had seen him in the control room earlier. Like the rest of the sailors, he wasn't in uniform, but Napoleon had picked up on the fact that he was First Lieutenant.

"So you're the Yank," he said. "I'm Wyatt."

"Napoleon Solo."

They shook hands awkwardly, Napoleon still in his bunk.

Wyatt ran a trickle of water into the tiny metal sink in the corner, just enough to wet his toothbrush.

"Seems some of your men are trapped up on the ice."

"Yes."

"Nasty time of year for it."

"So I hear," Napoleon said dryly.

"Any of them have any Arctic experience?"

"All three of them, fortunately."

Wyatt brushed his teeth for a while in silence. Napoleon got the impression he was a man who always thought long and hard before he spoke.

Finally he spat into the basin.

"I was in the Arctic convoys during the war," he offered. "Over the top of Scandinavia, you know. In the surface fleet."

"It was an unpleasant place to be, from all accounts," Napoleon said politely.

Wyatt shrugged.

"We never went nearly as far north as Svalbard, but it was bad enough further south."

"Is that why you switched to submarines?"

That provoked an unexpected snort of laughter from Wyatt.

"You could say that."

He stripped off, and climbed up into the top bunk.

Napoleon had been propped up on one elbow, but now he lay back down, folding his hands behind his head. He had only two feet of space above him, and Wyatt was already snoring. Good thing he was used to sleeping anywhere. It did give him a funny feeling to be lying twenty feet from a nuclear reactor, but even that wasn't enough to keep him awake.

Out of the corner of his eye he could see the clock bolted to the cabin's far wall. It was a 24-hour ship's clock, and it took him a few moments to figure out what the position of the hands meant. Still sixteen hours until their ETA at Svalbard.

"Being on a submarine is mostly about waiting," Illya had said once. "Whether on watch or off. You get a lot of reading done."

Napoleon had last seen Illya almost two weeks ago now. He'd been in a foul mood because of his twisted ankle, which was at that annoying stage where it seemed to be almost cured, until he tried to actually do anything besides sitting around. He had a sprained wrist to go with it too, meaning he could only use one of his crutches. He'd cheered up when Napoleon offered to cook him a steak dinner, though.

He'd been staying at Napoleon's apartment for a week by that point.

"It's only fair," he'd said. "You're the one who wanted to include that idiot Haversmith in the training exercise, Napoleon."

"Not with the intention of having him push you down the stairs! It was you who told them all to enter into the spirit of the exercise, and you _were_ wearing a THRUSH uniform."

Though really Illya didn't need an excuse to stay at Napoleon's place. It was what they always did when one of them was injured.

That last evening before Napoleon left for Europe, Illya was sitting at the dining table, crutch propped up beside him, when Napoleon came in carrying the potatoes.

He placed the hot dish down on a cork mat, and said casually, "I hear Weissler wants you as CEA of the Berlin office."

Illya nodded. He started to dole out the potatoes.

"Salt and pepper, Napoleon."

Napoleon went back to the kitchen.

"Have you considered it?" he called.

He came back into the living room with the condiments to find Illya staring at him, his brow creased in a tiny, puzzled frown.

"Of course not."

"Why not?"

"Napoleon, I get such offers all the time, you know that. Once every few months at least. And I never consider them."

"Never for such an important position, though. Berlin is one of the Big Five."

Illya was giving him a narrow-eyed, distinctly suspicious look now.

"Do you know something I don't?"

Napoleon shook his head.

"I wouldn't keep something like that from you.

He slid the steaks from tray to plates, and they both fell silent and began to eat.

"You're next in line for CEA here after me," Napoleon said after a minute.

Illya grunted an acknowledgement around a mouthful of steak.

"But I only have two years' seniority over you," Napoleon went on. 

"And?"

"Well, that means that if I don't kick the bucket, but rather manage to hang on as CEA until I get pushed upstairs, then you won't be in the position for very long before you get booted upstairs too -- or sideways, or somewhere else."

Illya shot him an amused look.

"You make it sound like I should be hoping anxiously for your death."

Napoleon snorted with laughter.

"You could also just bump me off."

"Believe me, Napoleon, for that I need far less incentive than the CEA spot."

"Oh?" Napoleon raised an eyebrow, and made a show of sniffing at his food.

"You insult me, Napoleon. You think I'd use a poison with a smell?"

They exchanged grins, but Illya soon turned serious again.

"You've been two years older than me since the day I was born, Napoleon. What's changed now?"

"Nothing." Napoleon speared a potato with his fork, and then added thoughtfully, "We're both getting older, I suppose."

"Is this because that girl in the library thought you dyed your hair?"

Napoleon ignored that.

"How did your miniature transmitter thingamabob work out?" he asked after a minute, deliberately changing the subject. Illya let him -- he didn't seem to like the topic too well either.

"It short-circuited."

"Oh." Napoleon winced. "Well, never mind, you still have at least another week in the lab in which to perfect it." 

Illya scowled at him.

"Another week trying to work one-handed, you mean."

"Don't you still have that lovely assistant -- Caroline, isn't it?"

"The lovely Caroline has two left hands," Illya said sourly.

Napoleon raised his eyebrows.

"I see the poor girl is out of favor with her boss. Does that mean I can ask her out now?"

"No, it does not. We agreed all my lab assistants were off limits -- unless they themselves ask _you_ out, I suppose. Which is unlikely, since they're all highly intelligent and discerning individuals."

Loftily, Napoleon ignored that.

"Anyway, Caroline has a crush on you, I'm fairly sure," he said.

Illya scowled at him.

They finished eating, and Napoleon cleaned up while Illya hopped over to the couch. He had a collection of his own books and journals scattered around Napoleon's apartment, but today he'd brought a new one, the latest Physical Review.

When Napoleon came back into the living room, the washing up finished, he found Illya comfortably ensconced in the best seat on the couch, closest to the reading lamp.

Napoleon glared at him.

"You owe me about twenty dinners, you know that?"

"Don't worry, I'm sure you won't let me forget."

Napoleon picked up a novel in Italian, part of his regular plan to keep his languages fresh. But it wasn't very gripping, and soon he was lost in thoughts of where to take Karen Miller next Friday night.

He was startled out of his reverie when Illya spoke up suddenly.

"All right, I'll consider it."

"What?" 

"I said I'll consider it."

Napoleon stared. After a moment, it occurred to him what Illya might be talking about, but it seemed almost unbelievable.

"You mean...Berlin?"

Illya nodded.

Napoleon seemed to have developed the most peculiar empty feeling in his gut. A surge of adrenaline rushed through him -- rather like he'd unexpectedly fallen off a cliff.

"Okay," he said. "Ah -- good."

He'd rather have been saying _Don't go, I take it all back._ But that was stupid. This would be a good thing, for Illya and for UNCLE.

Illya was giving him a peculiar look out of the corner of his eye. Napoleon got the strangest feeling that that had been some kind of test, and that he'd most definitely failed it.

.. .. ..


	2. Act II: "Standby to surface!"

  
  


Act Two _"Standby to surface!"_

.. .. ..

The wardroom was starting to empty after dinner, the on-going watch officers hurrying off to their posts. Napoleon sat savoring a cup of coffee. He glanced at the speed dial on the wall opposite him, for the umpteenth time. It was reassuring to know that the submarine was racing through the water, though he couldn't feel its speed himself. They were well under the ice pack now, and should be passing Svalbard in less than three hours. 

By now, only Captain Tallens and Wyatt were left in the wardroom.

"Mr Solo," Tallens said, rather in the manner of Waverly about to begin a debriefing. "My orders didn't give me very many details about your agents. I wonder if you can see your way to telling me a little more about them."

Napoleon understood the impulse to put names and identities to the men they were racing to save. And there was no reason to keep the facts secret. Tallens would meet all three UNCLE agents soon enough, he hoped.

"It's a team of three," he began. "The youngest is only a few months out of Survival School -- our training course. His name is Hagen. Cairns is much more senior. He's been a field agent for many years now, and he has a lot of Arctic experience. Grew up in the far north of Canada."

Napoleon had never met Hagen, who was an agent from the Stockholm office. He knew Cairns well though, and he realized that as he talked, he was picturing Cairns and Illya as he'd last seen them, in New York. Now, they must be in a very different state, freezing to death on the ice. He shook that image off.

"The third man, Kuryakin, is the senior agent in the group. He's one of our top agents. My partner."

Wyatt leant forward to speak for the first time since he'd entered the wardroom.

"I'll be the one leading the shore party. I need to know if we can expect some sort of enemy presence, and what form it may take."

Napoleon gave him a rueful smile. 

"I know it seems as if you don't have all the information you need, but I won't put your men in danger by keeping you in the dark, I promise you that. All I can say is that I wouldn't put it past THRUSH to have a presence on the island."

Tallens frowned at that.

"If I understand correctly, you're not sure how your men ended up there?"

Napoleon nodded.

"So it could easily be a trap?"

"Yes."

Tallens leaned back, looking thoughtful.

"Everything will depend on the visibility," he said. "The first thing we'll do when we surface is to get the latest weather report and forecast." He slid along the narrow wooden bench, out from behind the table, and got to his feet. "I suggest we meet at oh nine hundred hours to discuss the details. Good day, gentlemen."

That left Napoleon with the taciturn Wyatt, who was also nursing a cup of coffee. The room was silent, and now Napoleon could hear the weird, eerie song of the ice, creaking and groaning above them.

He was struck again by the strange feeling of being trapped in another world under the ice. They were isolated from the outside world, with no way of contacting it -- and therefore no news of the latest weather reports up top.

He thought back over his dinner-table conversation with these men who spent their lives under the sea. They had a very different way of thinking than he remembered from his Army days. There was a different atmosphere here: the men didn't salute or wear uniforms, and yet discipline was strict. One tiny slip-up could cost the life of everyone on board.

He wondered if Illya could have ended up staying at sea, in another life. They never discussed such things. He didn't really know what hopes or plans Illya had for the future, or what plans he might have had in the past. That hadn't mattered before -- they lived very much in the present, relieved to have survived this mission, not looking further ahead than the next. 

But now, Napoleon felt that if he went on thinking like that, Illya would slip through his fingers and vanish someday.

.. .. ..

"Thick ice, thick ice," the Sonar Officer's voice repeated, his monotonous chant sounding out across the control room.

They had reached the island, and had been circling it for the past hour, looking for a place in the pack ice thin enough to break through.

"If we're lucky, we'll find a patch of open water, a lead or even a skylight," said Williams, who was standing near Napoleon. "But it will be enough to find one that's only recently begun to freeze over. The ice will be thinner there, and we can break through."

"And what are the odds of finding one?"

Wyatt shrugged.

"It's more difficult this close to land."

Foyle, who was seated at the navigation table, turned to look up at Napoleon.

"The ice is constantly shifting and changing. But we're under fast ice here. It would be much easier to find a lead in drift ice, further away from land."

"Thick ice," the Sonar Officer was still singing out. "Thick ice." But then, suddenly, "Clear water!"

Everyone craned forward for a view of the sonar chart, where the pencil had jumped right up to the top of the page.

"All engines stop," the captain called.

The boat was already drifting away from the open lead, but they knew where it was now, and all they had to do was maneuver back against the current. The lead was smaller than the sub itself, but it was enough for them to force their way through.

"Standby to surface!"

Klaxons wailed throughout the boat. There came an enormous crunch and groan of breaking ice, and the submarine lurched and then shot up into the world above.

Half an hour later, Napoleon had climbed up the ladder to the bridge and emerged into the fresh, freezing cold Arctic air. He was part of a team of ten men, including Wyatt, and the Medical Officer, Bowen.

A blanket of snow and ice lay all around, so that Napoleon couldn't tell where the sea ended and the land began. They'd had the immense good fortune to arrive during a small lull in the storm. A harsh wind swept across the ice pack, driving snowflakes like bullets against exposed skin, but visibility was reasonable.

"There should be five or six hours of daylight today," Wyatt shouted in Napoleon's ear, above the howling of the wind. "Lucky we didn't come a few weeks ago or we'd have been in darkness all day." He looked around, taking his bearings. "But we'd better hurry before the storm blows up again -- or before the lead closes and the boat is forced to dive."

Napoleon hadn't even considered that possibility. He turned to look back at submarine's sail, a stark black structure sticking up from the white expanse, huge chunks of broken ice piled up around it.

"Is that likely?"

Wyatt grinned at him.

"Do you know how much force two moving ice floes can exert? More than the hull can withstand, that's for sure." He raised his voice to shout at his men. "Come on, move out."

They traversed a landscape sculpted from ice. Cliffs and crevasses blocked their path constantly, slowing their progress and tiring them out. The wind turned the falling snow into tiny icy bullets, striking against any exposed skin.

Finally, Napoleon began to see rocky outcrops and cliffs amid the ice. They must be on land now, and no longer out on the ice floe. After another twenty minutes' slow advance, one particular outcrop of rock in the distance caught his eye. He could only see its dark outline against the snow, but it seemed somehow regular, something man-made.

Soon, they were close enough to see it was a collection of huts, left here by some expedition or other of past years. A helicopter stood in an open space between the huts, now covered with a thick layer of frozen snow. Napoleon's heartbeat picked up. This was the first sign they had that their information was in fact true -- that Illya and the others could really be here.

They approached with caution, but there was no sign of THRUSH -- in fact no sign of life at all. Wyatt posted guards around the perimeter, and then they began a systematic search.

The first body they found was that of Hagen, laid out neatly in one of the huts. He was dressed in cold-weather gear, the THRUSH symbol emblazoned all over it. They had only to open his jacket to see the gunshot wound that had killed him. It had been dressed, but the bandages were soaked with dried and frozen blood. Napoleon had only ever seen Hagen's photograph. He had been a fresh-faced young man in his UNCLE file, but now his features were etched with pain and exhaustion.

In the neighboring hut they found the next body, crumpled in a heap on the ground. The hut also held a few supplies abandoned by whoever had left the huts behind. It looked as if the man had died in the process of trying to sort through the boxes for anything salvageable.

He was lying face-down, his head covered by his fur-lined hood, his face hidden. The doctor knelt down by him, and turned him over so that they could see his face.

Napoleon hardly had the energy left to feel guilt about the surge of relief that ran through him.

"It's Cairns," he said grimly.

Dr Bowen performed a very brief examination.

"This man died of exposure, as far as I can tell," he said finally. "He does have a few injuries, but minor ones."

Napoleon's throat was tightly closed around the sick feeling rising up from his stomach. He had a sudden, irrational impulse to halt the search -- to put off the inevitable as long as possible.

There came a shout from the adjoining room.

"This one's still alive!"

Napoleon spun round, his heart speeding up in anticipation and hope. He hurried to the door, and saw Illya sitting slumped over a table, his head resting at an uncomfortable angle, a spanner lying by his limp right hand. It looked as if he'd been trying to assemble a radio from spare parts.

"Dr Bowen," Napoleon shouted, but the doctor was already hurrying in behind him.

.. .. ..

An eerie hush hung over HMS Neptune. Everyone knew the rescue mission had not gone as well as hoped, and the only survivor was in sickbay. The two bodies in the torpedo room cast a heavy shadow over the spirits of every man on the boat.

Napoleon sat in the corner of sick-bay, watching Dr Bowen tend to Illya, who'd been unconscious since they'd found him.

Napoleon hadn't had much to do with the ship's doctor until now, but he seemed to be a competent man, and he hadn't tried to throw Napoleon out of sickbay. That was certainly a point in his favor. 

"Your agent doesn't seem to be injured," he'd told Napoleon when he first examined Illya. "He's suffering only from exposure to the cold."

Now, Bowen straightened, and said over his shoulder to Napoleon, "I believe he's coming to."

Illya stirred, and let out a weak moan.

"Illya," Napoleon said, loud enough so that Illya could hear him.

"Napoleon?"

Illya's voice was faint. Napoleon took a chair closer to the bed, and Illya's eyes focussed on him. He seemed weak, but his voice didn't have the tight, controlled edge to it that it had when Illya was in pain -- and Napoleon had heard that voice more than often enough to know it.

"We're on a Royal Navy submarine," Napoleon said quickly, knowing how horrible it was to wake up disorientated.

Illya blinked at him for a moment, and then lifted his head, trying to look around the room.

"Where's Cairns?" he asked, his voice still weak.

Napoleon hesitated.

"And you found Hagen? We couldn't bury him, couldn't dig a hole..."

Napoleon cut across him.

"Illya, Cairns is dead too."

"Oh." Illya's head fell back against the white hospital pillow. "I didn't think he was...so far gone."

His eyes flickered to Bowen, and Napoleon knew he was wondering who this was, and whether he could speak freely in front of him. 

The doctor seemed to sense the question.

"Harry Bowen, Medical Officer, HMS Neptune," he said. "There's nothing wrong with you that rest and warmth won't fix, Mr Kuryakin." He helped Illya sit up, and gave him another pillow. "I'll be in my office if you need me, gentlemen."

He left the room, and Napoleon drew his chair up to the bed. 

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

"Surprised to have escaped an icy grave." Illya looked up at Napoleon, his expression sober. "I hadn't the slightest hope of a rescue attempt. How on earth did you find us?"

"A little bird let slip where you were."

"Oh?" Illya looked thoughtful. "Or was it a big bird of prey who told you deliberately?"

Napoleon's eyebrows shot up.

"What are you suggesting?"

"We were captured in Rognan, just after our meeting with the mole --"

"-- who betrayed you?"

"Not necessarily. It may also just have been bad luck." He shrugged. "Then they took us to one of their bases, somewhere in the Svalbard archipelago. They use it for weapons testing, I think, though we didn't hang around long enough to find out. Cairns and Hagen were injured during our escape." His gaze clouded. "I'm amazed Hagen made it as far as he did."

Napoleon knew better than to offer a word of comfort. 

"We found the helicopter," he said. "With the fuel tank empty."

"We were forced to land." He gave Napoleon a sideways look. "I suppose you're wondering why we were flying north instead of south?"

"I did find that a bit odd, yes."

"The helicopter's navigational controls had been tampered with. And we were flying at night, through heavy snowfall. Couldn't see the stars, the sun...It wasn't until after we landed and the sky cleared that we realized where we must be."

Napoleon frowned. 

"Sounds rather like the whole thing was a set-up from the start."

"It does, doesn't it?"

"But to what end?"

Illya shook his head.

"If I figure anything out, you'll be the first to know." He looked around. "Where are my clothes?"

Bowen had stowed them away in a drawer under the bed.

"Cut open the lining of the jacket," Illya instructed.

Napoleon did so, and found a tiny metal disk half an inch across. He balanced it in the palm of his hand, remembering how excited he and Waverly had been at the idea of getting their hands on this recording. Now, he had a feeling they'd been played for dupes.

"Think it's actually worth anything at all?" 

"Not the life of Cairns and Hagen," Illya said grimly.

Bowen returned at that point, and Napoleon slipped the recording into his pocket.

"The captain would like to see Mr Kuryakin," the doctor announced. "From a medical standpoint, I believe I can clear the visit -- if you're feeling up to it, Mr Kuryakin? "

Illya nodded, and Bowen crossed the room to the telephone. 

"He'll be along in a few minutes," he announced, before slipping out again. 

"You haven't told them I'm an ex-submariner?" Illya said quietly, and in Russian.

Napoleon shook his head.

"Then please don't. I expect they're already unhappy enough to have a Soviet on board. I won't be surprised to find myself confined to sickbay."

Napoleon shuddered in an exaggerated manner.

"As if the sub wasn't already small enough."

Illya raised an eyebrow. 

"Touch of claustrophobia, Napoleon?"

"Of course not. But I have to say I'm glad I was in the army."

Illya lay back, and looked around him.

"Funny to be back on a submarine." He took a deep breath. "Different. Diesel-powered subs have a very particular smell. I presume this is a nuclear submarine?"

"It's one of the Royal Navy's first."

He turned, hearing the door open. Tallens came in, accompanied by Bowen, and Napoleon performed the introductions.

"I was extremely sorry to hear about your two agents, gentlemen," Tallens said sincerely. "Allow me to present my condolences."

"We have you and your men to thank for the life of the third," Napoleon said.

Tallens nodded in acknowledgement.

"We'll be out from under the icecap within twelve hours, and within helicopter range of northern Norway twenty hours after that." He turned to Illya. "I understand you are a Soviet citizen, Mr Kuryakin?"

"That's correct."

"Dr Bowen tells me you should be up and about soon, after a short period of rest. How are you feeling?"

"All the better for Dr Bowen's ministrations, thank you," Illya said politely.

Napoleon was surprised. He had been quite sure Tallens would instruct Bowen to announce that Illya was too ill to leave his bed, and thereby completely avoid the issue of whether he should be allowed free run of the boat or not.

"I'll have to ask you to confine yourself to this corridor: sickbay, the officers' quarters, the officers' wardroom -- and the library and senior ratings' mess, if you wish. I ask you to give me your word of honor you won't stray beyond those bounds."

Napoleon was about to object, but Illya was already nodding.

"You have my word, captain."

Tallens gave him a slight bow of acknowledgement.

"My best wishes for a speedy recovery, Mr Kuryakin."

As soon as he and Bowen had left, Napoleon burst out, very softly but also angrily, "There's no need for that. And you agreed!"

"His caution is perfectly reasonable, Napoleon. Unjustified, yes, but reasonable. They've no way of knowing I'm not going to report everything I see back to Soviet Naval Intelligence."

"Of course you aren't!"

"No. And in fact, if word of this ever filters back to my former superiors, I'd much rather be able to say I was confined to quarters, and therefore couldn't possibly have told them anything anyway."

Napoleon was forced to acknowledge the wisdom of that, though he still felt Illya's status as an UNCLE agent should trump all other considerations.

Illya sat back, a small, self-deprecating smile playing around his lips.

"All logic aside, though, this is extremely frustrating. I believe I may die of curiosity, Napoleon."

"Oh?"

"I haven't been on a submarine in almost ten years, and in any case, the West has the edge over the Soviet Navy, I'm forced to admit. Just think how much technology must have improved -- and I'm not just talking about the nuclear reactor." He was leaning forward now, looking animated. "For instance, usually a sub takes bearings every time it surfaces to recharge the batteries, but this nuclear sub doesn't need to surface. It can stay underwater as long as it wants -- but then how do they know where they are?"

Napoleon stared. He hadn't thought of that at all. Even if the submarine had windows, which it didn't, they wouldn't be able to see anything outside: it would be pitch black underwater. He thought hard. Illya enjoyed putting him on the spot like this from time to time, and he was always determined to rise to the challenge.

"I suppose...by knowing where they started, what speed and direction they travelled...oh, and the ocean currents, too."

"Have a gold star, Napoleon. Yes, something like that, I think. It must be amazingly accurate, with instruments to measure the exact acceleration and rotation of the boat. I would dearly like to take a look at it."

Napoleon was frowning. Something horrible had just occurred to him.

"But all that only tells you where you are. How do they avoid running into other submarines, or ships, or underwater mountains and icebergs and the like?" 

"Luck."

Napoleon stared.

"What?"

Illya relented a little.

"There's also sonar, of course. If they can risk it, and the enemy's not nearby. Otherwise -- luck." He grinned. "I'm sorry, Napoleon, are you having second thoughts about this mode of transport? I'm afraid it's a bit too late to get out and walk."

Napoleon glowered at him.

"Aren't you supposed to be sleeping?"

It was a very weak riposte indeed. But Illya did look peaky, and he agreed suspiciously easily to rearrange his pillows and lie down. When Napoleon left him, he had his eyes closed and already seemed to be drifting off to sleep. Napoleon hoped he had distracted him from thoughts of Cairns and Hagen.

.. .. ..

Illya, Napoleon and the Sonar Officer were in the wardroom a few hours later when the Captain and Lieutenant Foyle arrived.

The Captain sat down, nodding a greeting to all about him. Foyle didn't take a seat.

"Mr Kuryakin, I promised you I'd show you how the library system works," he said. "I'm off duty now, so if you like -- "

Illya got to his feet, looking delighted.

"That's very kind of you, lieutenant."

They left together, Foyle already deep in an explanation about the system he'd developed to make sure the selection of books was systematically renewed each time they returned to their home port.

The steward popped his head in the door, and Tallens asked for a cup of coffee before turning to Napoleon.

"Your agent speaks rather good English," he remarked in a conversational tone. "For a Russian."

"He's a Cambridge graduate," Napoleon said stiffly.

The captain didn't look particularly reassured by this statement.

"I'm an Oxford man myself," he said.

Napoleon smiled politely. Conversing with Tallens was always a peculiar experience for him. Most people found Napoleon charming and friendly because he genuinely was. It came naturally to him. But with Tallens, he found himself having to make an effort to charm. Something about the man just threw him off his game, and Napoleon couldn't figure out what it was. 

Tallens was a good man at heart, that much seemed clear. His actions said it louder than any words could. But there was something in his manner that Napoleon found off-putting. He wondered how Tallens had risen to be a leader of men, and how his crew saw him.

The Sonar Officer Harvey had asked Tallens something about the chess tournament he'd been running for the past few months, and the two of them had fallen into a conversation about the relative merits of Foyle's risky style and Wyatt's prudence during last week's game. Napoleon listened at first, but his mind soon wandered to other things.

He was wondering whether UNCLE's experts would be able to get anything at all from the little metal disk in his pocket. He had radioed Waverly before they dived to update him about the situation, but he wouldn't receive the reply until they came back out from under the ice. Thinking of Waverly led him to Cairns, who had served in the New York office longer than Napoleon himself had. He would have been retiring from Section II in just a few months, if he'd lived.

Napoleon was just a tiny bit surprised to have come so close now to his own retirement. Not that he lived his life expecting to die, but until recently he'd never allowed himself to picture a future either.

Illya had once said that the future was a distraction they couldn't afford. At the time, he'd been joking, but that didn't make it any less true.

Napoleon pushed down the tiny, nagging thought that this could be his and Illya's last mission together. He hadn't brought up the idea of Illya transferring to Berlin since they'd both come aboard, and neither had Illya.

Napoleon wasn't used to being so introspective. It seemed he was getting old. Or maybe it just came from being trapped on this damn submarine, unable to do anything, unable to act, just waiting to be carried somewhere. He'd been telling himself he should try to think of it as a really long-distance airplane ride, but that wasn't working -- maybe because he was perfectly capable of flying a commercial airliner, if necessary, but he couldn't steer a submarine. And that was what bothered him, that feeling of not being in control.

Not that he'd ever have admitted that aloud. Napoleon Solo was practically superhuman, as far as anyone else knew, and practically infallible too. He took great pride in never saying or doing anything to contradict that.

Only with Illya could he let his guard down. Maybe this was why he was so put out by the idea of Illya leaving for Berlin. And wasn't that just selfish of him.

He shook it off, and set his mind firmly on a happier track. He hadn't got to the age of thirty-nine, through torture, drugs and disaster, by being introspective and self-analyzing.

He drained the dregs of his cup of coffee and took his leave of Tallens and the other officer. In the corridor outside the wardroom he met Illya, carrying a stack of books.

Napoleon raised his eyebrows.

"You intend to read all that in the next twenty-four hours?" 

Illya ignored this.

"I got you something," he said, holding out a paperback. It was Steinbeck's 'East of Eden', which Napoleon had started and had to abandon in a hotel room in Tokyo last month.

They sat in Napoleon's cabin, one at either end of the bunk, curled up to fit into the cramped space. Napoleon ended up with the gas mask digging into his back, and had to perform acrobatics to get it out of the way.

"I'll be glad when we're off this ship," he grumbled.

"Boat, Napoleon," Illya corrected absently, turning a page. 

Napoleon grunted.

Illya looked up at him and flashed him a quick smile.

"Count yourself lucky, Napoleon. No one's seasick."

Napoleon had to smile ruefully himself, remembering several memorable occasions when Illya had been violently seasick, sometimes all over Napoleon.

"You can't get seasick on a submarine, can you?"

Illya let out a snort of laughter.

"Oh you can, Napoleon, believe me. When the sub's on the surface in open water it's a thousand times worse than being on a ship."

"Oh?"

"There's no keel, remember. Nothing to stabilize the vessel."

Napoleon hadn't really thought about that aspect of a submarine's design before. He grimaced.

Illya was already deep in his book again, and Napoleon returned to his own reading, but he couldn't seem to concentrate. Other thoughts kept pushing their way into his mind.

"Why did you leave the Navy, Illya?" he asked abruptly.

Illya looked surprised, but answered readily enough.

"I reached the end of a compulsory tour of duty. Why?"

"Just wondering." After a pause, he added, "What age were you?"

"At the end? Twenty-one."

"And was this -- our life now -- what you expected to be doing when you were forty?"

Illya gazed silently at Napoleon for a moment. He seemed to be considering the question very seriously, but when he answered, his voice was light.

"Of course not. No more than you did."

Illya didn't seem to want a serious conversation on the topic, so Napoleon went along with his lead.

"I certainly didn't plan to wind up in an iron coffin with a nuclear reactor, no," he said just as lightly.

Illya shot him a reproving look. Perhaps he felt he had to defend the submarining life.

"We're perfectly safe, you know, Napoleon. The reactor is completely shielded. It's the poor dockworkers who do the submarine refits who take the radiation hit."

That was when a piercing alarm suddenly broke through the air.

They both shot out of the bunk and out into the corridor. In the distance, towards the motors and the nuclear reactor abaft their cabin, they could distinctly hear the cry:

"Fire!"

.. .. ..


	3. Act III: "Thick ice...Thick ice..."

  
  


  


Act Three _"Thick ice... Thick ice..."_

.. .. ..

Smoke had already begun to taint the air throughout the ship. Grim-faced men rushed to and fro, following the fire-fighting procedures in which they'd been so often and so well drilled. Everything was done calmly and efficiently, but the undercurrent of panic was there, if still deeply buried. Fire on a submarine was every sailor's worst nightmare, and fire under the ice was close to a death sentence.

Napoleon, in the control room with Illya at his side, soon learned that the fire was in AMS, the Auxiliary Machinery Space. 

"That's where the air scrubbers are," Illya said under his breath, and Napoleon felt his stomach plunge, because that sounded like one of the worst places possible. Instinctively he took a deep breath, imagining he could already feel carbon dioxide levels rising and oxygen levels falling, not to mention the smoke slowly seeping through the air.

The crew were fighting the fire in teams. Each group disappeared in turn through the hatchway into the smoke-filled engineering space, returning ten minutes later to pass the breathing apparatus to the next man, and collapse onto the nearest available surface, wiping sweat and soot from their faces. The rest of the crew, as far as possible, were at the other end of the boat where the air was clearest. What they needed most of all now was to surface and refresh the smoke-filled air -- but they were trapped under the icepack, and the open sea was still two hours away at maximum speed.

Napoleon, waiting in the corridor for his first turn at battling the fire, could hear the Sonar Officer's voice intoning in the distance.

"Thick ice... Thick ice..."

He remembered the last time they'd been looking for a thin patch or break in the ice, near the island north of Svalbard. Then, he'd been desperate to get to Illya and the others as quickly as possible, and he'd thought nothing could be more nerve-wracking. But this was.

Wyatt, standing waiting next to him, noticed him listening.

"It's February," he said grimly. "The ice is at its thickest."

Before Napoleon could think of something suitably lighthearted to say, someone was handing him a fire extinguisher and a gas mask. He took a deep breath and plunged into the furnace.

The temperature in the whole boat was rising now, and the needle on the oxygen gauge was swinging slowly lower. Even well for'ard of the machine space it was becoming difficult to breath.

It was ironic, Napoleon thought. The fire would go out when all the oxygen was used up -- but they'd all be dead by then.

By now everyone had taken a turn in the unbearably hot, smoke-filled room, from the captain to the most junior rating. The only man excused was the Sonar Officer, hunched over his chart with his headphones clamped to his ears.

Napoleon stumbled out of the engine room for the third time, and handed the breathing apparatus on to the next person. They were only going in for a few minutes each at a time now, but it had felt like hours.

Through the smoke he caught sight of Illya's smut-stained face. His partner was sitting on the ground in an out-of-the-way corner, slumped back against a bulkhead. Napoleon flopped to the ground beside him.

"You okay, Illya?"

Up close, Napoleon could see Illya's eyes were red from exposure to the smoke. Napoleon imagined he himself looked much the same. They were both breathing in short, harsh gasps.

Illya didn't try to speak. He just nodded. Napoleon scooted closer so they were leaning up against each other. The warmth of Illya's shoulder was almost too much, in the overheated atmosphere of the sub, but Napoleon didn't want to pull away.

They sat there like that in silence for a while, until it was Illya's turn once more to plunge into the smokey furnace. He reached out and squeezed Napoleon's shoulder briefly, then clambered wearily to his feet, and disappeared into the engine room. Napoleon watched him go, feeling something tug at his chest.

He closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the bulkhead behind him, too tired to think.

In the end, the two breakthroughs they needed came almost at the same time. The Sonar Officer shouted out the discovery of the long sought for opening in the ice, just as word started to go round the boat that the battle against the flames had almost been won.

The submarine shot up, cracking the ice, and within five minutes, fresh air was flooding down the sail into the control room. Napoleon gulped it in, long deep breaths, thinking the cold Arctic air had never tasted so sweet.

.. .. ..

A shocked silence filled the wardroom.

Napoleon, Illya and the submarine's senior officers were crammed into the tiny space. On the table between them lay a blackened, melted tangle of wires. After the fire had finally been completely extinguished, the first investigations had shown that, by a miracle, all of the boat's most basic functions had survived or could be repaired. The search also turned up this bundle of wires in the Auxiliary Machine Space, in the area where the fire first broke out. Sabotage was what Captain Tallens had called it, and sabotage was what it clearly was.

"The entire engineering crew swears it wasn't there five days ago," Tallens added. "They did some routine maintenance on that valve then. That means the saboteur can't have been someone back at base. The man who did this is on board with us."

"Christ, he must be suicidal!" Foyle burst out.

Out of the corner of his eye, Napoleon saw Illya shake his head.

"I don't think so. I don't believe he had any intention of dying."

Every head in the room snapped round to face Illya.

"If you really want to sabotage a nuclear submarine, you go for the reactor," Illya said calmly. "This was just something to force us to surface -- the first thing a sub on fire will try to do. I suspect the device wasn't supposed to go off until we were well clear of the ice pack."

"You do, do you?" Tallens said, in a voice rather less hostile than his words seemed.

Illya pointed at a twisted lump of metal among the wires.

"That looks to me as if it were once a radio receiver. Someone intended to set this off at a very specific time and place."

"But something else triggered it too soon?"

Illya shrugged.

"Maybe a stray spark in the engine room set it off instead."

This was followed by dead silence. It was the Captain who first voiced the question that was running through all their minds: if the saboteur really was still on board, who could it be?

"It has to be someone with access to the inertial navigation system," Wyatt said thoughtfully. "If this thing really was supposed to force us to surface at a particular location."

Napoleon's first thought was that this effectively eliminated Illya, and more or less eliminated Napoleon too. But several of the officers were looking at Illya with more suspicion than before, not less. Probably because he'd just displayed considerable technical knowledge they hadn't known he possessed.

The atmosphere in the wardroom became ever tenser as the officers traded ideas back and forth. For the moment, they were talking about the enlisted men, but everyone knew the list of suspects didn't stop there.

Tallens soon dismissed the meeting. He looked worried and older as he left the wardroom, Executive Officer Wyatt on his heels.

In the corridor outside, Napoleon drew Illya aside.

"Well, what do you think?" he said, in an undertone and in Russian. That was unlikely to endear him to anyone who overheard, but it was the only way they had to discuss in private just now.

Illya frowned, looking as if he was busy racking his brains just as hard as Napoleon.

"THRUSH?" he suggested. "They are the ones responsible for us being here in the first place."

"I think it has to be. Unless the sabotage is nothing to do with us, and it's just a complete coincidence that we're on board at the same time."

Illya threw him a look of impatience.

Napoleon shrugged. "Just keeping an open mind."

"This was planned a long time in advance," Illya said thoughtfully. "To get a man on board, or several men -- that wasn't done in a few days."

"But why? What do they want? The microfilm back? That doesn't even make sense."

Foyle reappeared at Napoleon's elbow just then.

"The captain would like to see you in his cabin, Mr Solo."

Illya and Napoleon exchanged glances.

"All right," Napoleon said. "On my way, lieutenant."

Tallens was sitting at his desk, his face lined with exhaustion.

"I can't help feeling it's a bloody strange coincidence that this should happen just when you two are on board," he said abruptly.

"Precisely what we were thinking."

Instead of answering, Tallens went on giving him the same hard look, and it seemed to Napoleon that there was more suspicion than query in there. 

"You're suggesting UNCLE was somehow responsible for this?" he said, keeping his voice smooth and polite, but letting an edge of scorn show through.

Tallens winced.

"No, of course not, but -- are you sure your agent's loyalties really lie with UNCLE?"

"Illya Kuryakin?" Napoleon frowned. "Why not suspect me, while you're at it? I've been on board much longer, and I've had much freer rein to roam the boat."

"Don't you find it a little suspicious that he was the only person to survive out of your team of three men?"

Napoleon could see where Tallens was coming from -- he didn't know Illya, and he had to think of his crew and his boat -- but he had never detested the man quite as much as he did at that moment.

"Agent Kuryakin is above suspicion," he said curtly.

"Very well. Thank you for taking the time to see me, Mr Solo," Tallens said, which had the same effect as a dismissal. 

Napoleon was quite sure the captain would be radioing to ask for a background check on Illya and himself, as soon as they were back in contact with the outside world. He went away thinking it was almost a shame that Tallens was very unlikely to be the THRUSH agent. He would have derived a great deal of satisfaction from taking him in for questioning.

The atmosphere on board the submarine that day was tense and uncomfortable in the extreme. Everyone had heard about the sabotage, and the crew, naturally enough, much preferred to suspect the UNCLE agents than the men they had worked and lived with for months or years now. Illya was the clear favorite for the role of saboteur, but Napoleon also had his band of detractors.

Napoleon and Illya had very little opportunity for private conversation over the next few hours. Illya had been sleeping in the sickbay, for lack of space elsewhere, but now that place had been taken by the engineer's mates Bronson and Davies, still suffering from burns. Two other injured men were in the cabin Napoleon had occupied, and Illya, Napoleon and Wyatt were hot-bunking with the senior ratings.

They finally got a chance to talk when they found themselves alone in the wardroom. They were both sitting at the table that took up most of the tiny space, and the officers who'd been with them had left to go on duty.

"Who has easy, unquestioned access to both the engine room and the navigation system?" Napoleon said instantly, in Russian for extra privacy. This was the main thing he had been thinking about over the past few hours.

"Far too many people," Illya answered. He'd clearly been thinking about the same thing. "The Auxiliary Machine Space was a favorite spot for the junior ratings to gather and smoke. And many people have access to the boat's exact position." He wrinkled his nose in a grimace of frustration. "Besides, we can't assume just one guilty person. There may easily be several."

"Royal Navy personnel are not easy to suborn," Napoleon protested.

"No, but THRUSH are particularly skilled at it."

Napoleon was forced to concede that.

"In any case, there's another question that's just as important -- why? So why force us to surface? What's on board that they want? Is the microfilm valuable after all?

They fell silent.

Napoleon swirled the final dregs of the cup of coffee he'd been drinking. His lungs and throat still hurt from the smoke inhalation, and his head ached.

"Another brush with death," he said, pensive.

Illya shrugged. 

"But only a brush."

"Yes." Napoleon shot Illya a sudden smile. "You know, I'm starting to think I might actually get to enjoy my retirement."

Illya gave him an odd look.

"You're thirty-nine, Napoleon, not fifty-nine."

"That's true." Napoleon paused. "Do you ever think about the future, Illya?"

"I'm usually concentrating on my short-term goal of staying alive."

"But when you do think about..."

Napoleon let his voice trail off, and Illya said cautiously, "Yes?"

"Well, what do you want?"

Illya took his time answering.

"I never expected to be here this long," he said finally. "I've always been dependent on the goodwill of superiors at home, you know. I expected to be recalled years ago as part of some minor temper tantrum or bout of political maneuvering."

"Waverly wouldn't permit that," Napoleon said firmly. "He sees you as a permanent fixture."

"I know, but there are a handful of people even more powerful than him, who like to move their pawns around. And Waverley's playing his own long game, too." He gave Napoleon a direct stare. "We go and we do whatever we are told to do, remember?"

"Up to a point. We can leave. Resign."

"I can't." He paused, looking down into his cup now. "Well, I can, but I've never been sure what the consequences would be."

Napoleon was seized by a sudden, irrational fear.

"Did you even want this, Illya? Working for UNCLE?"

Illya looked up sharply, his eyes going wide.

"Yes. Yes! Surely you figured that out at some point over the last ten years?"

"Figured it out?"

"Working with you -- I wouldn't have missed that for anything."

He gave Napoleon one of his brief, dazzling smiles. Napoleon had to return it. He didn't think Illya had ever said that quite so clearly.

"Neither would I," he answered quietly.

Illya cleared his throat, clearly thinking that was quite enough soul-baring for one day. He picked up one of the decks of cards that lay on a shelf in the corner, along with a chess board and a backgammon set.

"Game of cards?"

A few minutes later, Wyatt came in, accompanied by one of the junior officers named Royston. Napoleon was in the middle of a sentence in Russian, and Royston stared at him in amazement.

"You're a Red? I thought you were an American."

Illya looked as if he wanted to point out that the two weren't mutually exclusive, but Napoleon, who was very far from being a Communist, got there first.

"Like to join our game?" he said smoothly. "We were just starting a new round."

Wyatt sat down at the table opposite Napoleon.

"Deal me in."

Royston hesitated, and then sat too.

"What's the game?"

"Gin rummy," Napoleon said. "Aces low."

He dealt the round, and the game began.

Wyatt, unsurprisingly, turned out to be one of those people who spend five minutes considering each card they play. Royston, on the other hand, turned out to be a very chatty player with not much strategy.

"This is a rummy game of Rummy," he remarked after he'd exhausted the topics of this week's film night and yesterday's dinner. He chuckled to himself. "Rummy game of Rummy. Get it?"

Wyatt was busy studying his cards, and Illya didn't seem inclined to answer, so Napoleon played along.

"What's so rummy about it?"

"Well, I never thought I'd be playing cards with an Ivan."

Illya gave him an icy look.

"What a delightful experience for you."

This rolled off Royston's back like water off a duck.

"You two must be feeling pretty uncomfortable, I'll bet," he added with a grin.

Even more so now than five minutes ago, Napoleon thought but didn't say.

"Not at all," he said with a polite smile.

Royston frowned at him, seeming to think he was missing the point.

"Well, you must know you're our chief suspects for the sabotage. Especially Mr Kuryakin here."

Napoleon was tempted to give the man a good set-down, but Royston was more socially awkward than malicious.

"Perfectly understandable under the circumstances," he said smoothly. "Your deal, by the way, Mr Royston."

He handed over the cards.

Wyatt hadn't opened his mouth since he'd sat down, besides to say 'gin'. Now he spoke up.

"I near froze to death bringing food to Leningrad during the war," he remarked thoughtfully, a propos of nothing. "Next thing I knew they're supposed to be our enemies. Beats me."

Illya gave him a surprised smile.

Napoleon watched the cards go round, thinking that whoever the THRUSH agent aboard might be, he sincerely hoped it wasn't Wyatt.

.. .. ..


	4. Act IV: "Emergency deep!"

  
  


  


Act Four _"Emergency deep!"_

.. .. ..

"Clear water!" The Sonar Officer's voice rang out across the control room. "Clear water!"

A murmur of excitement ran through the crewmen present. The captain unhooked the telephone for a ship-wide announcement.

"We're out from under the ice, gentlemen."

Napoleon was in the control room for the occasion. He felt lighter, as if the ice had been a physical weight pressing down on him. No longer being trapped under water -- it seemed the best feeling in the world just now.

"Prepare to surface," Tallens ordered.

The surface klaxons began to wail throughout the sub. In the pauses came the hiss of high-pressure air flooding into the ballast tanks. The screws bit into the water and the boat rose slowly out of the ocean.

Tallens gave orders that everyone from the officers to the most junior rating could go topside in turns. Napoleon went up with Illya, whose confinement had been lifted since the fire, when he'd seen a large part of the boat.

They stood at the bridge rail with the men of the topside watch, breathing in fresh, Arctic-cold air. Grey-blue skies stretched out above them as far as the eye could see, and the surface of the sea around them was dotted with thin ice floes, shifting and changing with the current beneath. Every so often, chunks of ice knocked against the submarine's hull with a dull thud.

A bow wave had built up before the submarine, and a large white wake spread out behind. Sea spray flew up to meet them, icy cold on Napoleon's face.

Illya caught Napoleon's eye. He was grinning, his blond hair wild in the wind. His face showed the exhilaration Napoleon felt, with cold crisp air on their skin, and submarine thrumming beneath their feet, its speed and power unmistakable.

They stayed only a few minutes on the bridge. The air temperature was several degrees below zero, and the submarine would soon be diving again to travel quickly to their rendezvous with the UNCLE helicopter. Napoleon slid back down the ladder after Illya and into the control room. The floor was rocking back and forth as the waves tossed the boat, throwing him off balance as he tried to walk. He remembered what Illya had said about the submarine having no keel.

"Rendezvous with your helicopter in eight hours," Tallens said.

Napoleon thanked him. He was almost out of the control room, Illya at his heels, when he heard someone behind him call out.

"Bridge lookout reports a contact."

"A ship on the surface?" Illya exclaimed, turning back.

"Message received in the radio room, sir," the Communications Officer sang out. He turned to face the captain, his eyes wide. "The message says: prepare to be boarded. And it's signed with the letters T.H.R.U.S.H."

Napoleon and Illya exchanged glances, as a few seconds of shocked silence filled the room.

"Emergency deep!" Tallens barked.

Instantly, the control room was filled with a cacophony of noise.

"Dive! Dive!"

"Hatch secured, sir!"

"Green board, sir!"

"Open one, three, five main ballasts!"

"Hydroplanes fifteen degrees to dive."

Napoleon and Illya kept out of the way.

"So you were right," Napoleon murmured. "THRUSH do want something on the sub -- but what?"

"It's the submarine!" Illya said slowly, in the voice of someone who has just seen the light. "Napoleon, they don't want something on board, they want the boat itself. Their own nuclear submarine."

Napoleon could only stare at him for a second. But yes, it made sense. That was what the incendiary device in the machine room must have been originally intended for: to force the sub to come to the surface in a panic, busy fighting the fire. They wouldn't have even seen the waiting THRUSH ship. And worse, the fire would have stopped them doing what submarines did best, and slipping silently away.

But some pieces of the puzzle still didn't fit. Napoleon's brain was now running at double speed.

Why now? Why wait for the return journey? Stranding UNCLE agents on the ice had been enough to lure a nuclear submarine away from its usual haunts, to this deserted part of the Arctic ocean. But if THRUSH wanted the sub itself, not the microfilm, or Napoleon or Illya, or anything else on board, then why not attack on its outward journey, before it ever went under the ice? Either it was because something had prevented the THRUSH ship from getting into place in time -- or else the plan involved THRUSH agents on board, and something had prevented him or them from acting.

A memory flashed suddenly into his head -- Lieutenant Foyle greeting him on his arrival, his arm heavily bandaged.

Napoleon spun round to face Foyle, who was reaching into his pocket at that very moment. He drew out a gun, but Napoleon was already on top of him, delivering a swift punch to Foyle's jaw.

Foyle went down with a thud. Every man in the room turned to face Napoleon. No one drew a gun on him, because submariners never did go around armed, but several of them moved towards him with the obvious attention of overpowering him.

"Foyle was a double agent," Napoleon said hastily, holding his hands up, palms out, to ward them off. "And he probably wasn't alone, so -- "

"How right you are," another voice said.

Two men stood in the corner of the control room, both holding automatic pistols. Napoleon recognized one of them as a torpedoman he'd worked with during the fire. He didn't know the other.

"Belay that order to dive," the torpedoman snapped, aiming his gun straight at the captain. "This sub's not going anywhere."

Nobody moved. They all knew that one single bullet could ricochet anywhere in the close confines of the sub. 

Napoleon glanced quickly around the room without moving his head, assessing the situation. No further THRUSH men had appeared, but these two were fully in control of the room. Napoleon started running through possible plans of action in his head.

The torpedoman took a step towards the captain.

"You heard me!"

"Abort the dive," Tallens said finally.

"Abort the dive, aye aye, sir," Wyatt echoed. 

The crew went through the procedure, then the control room went silent.

The sub was wallowing back and forth in the waves that swept across the sea's surface, and the control room floor rocked with it. It was a surreal scene. Everyone was completely silent, unmoving, focussed on the guns.

Foyle sat up, looking groggy. Blood was trickling down his temple from where he'd hit his head on the deck. Protected by his two accomplices, he retrieved his gun, which had fallen beside him.

"I'm glad to see you intend to cooperate, captain."

Tallens gave him a cold look instead of an answer.

Foyle smiled brightly at him, and turned his gaze and his gun on Wyatt next.

"Take a look through the periscope, will you, Wyatt old chap?"

Wyatt didn't move. His face was black with simmering anger.

Foyle gestured menacingly with his gun.

"Go ahead, Tom," Tallens said quietly, and Wyatt stepped up to the periscope, gripped the handles and set his eye to the viewfinder.

"The ship is still approaching. Bearing zero five eight." His quiet voice was the only thing to be heard in the silence of the control room. "Angle on the bow twenty port. Range...three oh four oh. Range two six three oh. Still approaching... Range one nine five four..."

Napoleon thought fast. Things were not quite going according to THRUSH's plan. There was no fire, and they seemed to have only three agents aboard -- one of them now injured. And yet it was still THRUSH who had control of the boat.

Their next step would presumably be to send out a boat from the ship, transfer all the Royal Navy men across to the ship, and man the sub with a THRUSH crew.

Which left Napoleon with a very small window of time in which to act. 

He knew all the sub's complement of guns were in the weapons locker, which needed both Tallens' and Wyatt's key to be opened. And even with the keys, it would be impossible to get to the locker without Foyle noticing. But there was one other gun on board -- the one Napoleon had brought.

Napoleon was standing next to Tallens, at the centre of attention, in the small group of men on which most of the guns in the room were trained. Two of the THRUSH men were holding Tallens and Wyatt hostage, and the other was guarding the hatch leading to the captain's office and the weapons locker. Which meant nobody was guarding the way out of the control room in the other direction. It led for'ard, toward the stateroom Napoleon had been sleeping in, and the locker he'd been using.

Illya, on the other hand, was standing back among the crowd, not far from the room's for'ard exit. Napoleon glanced at Illya, caught his eye, and looked away again. Thirty seconds later, not looking at Illya, he lifted his hand like he was holding a pen to write -- or a communicator disguised as a pen. He didn't dare glance again at Illya to see if he'd gotten the message. 

He waited thirty seconds more and then took a step towards Foyle.

"Now, just wait a minute," he said loudly.

Everyone in the room turned to look at him.

"You can't possibly expect to get away with this," Napoleon blustered. "It's madness!"

"Shut up," Foyle growled at him. "Or I'll blow your brains out."

"But this is crazy! Scandalous! Impossible!"

Foyle turned the gun on him. Napoleon judged he'd now given Illya enough time to act. He winced and stepped quickly back as though cowed by Foyle.

He didn't dare look in Illya's direction again until at least a minute had passed, a minute in which the range to the approaching ship grew ever smaller. When he did finally let his gaze drift that way, Illya had disappeared.

Napoleon let out a mental sigh of relief. Illya had seen him stow his communicator in his locker six hours earlier -- and that same locker contained his gun too, wrapped up in his Arctic furs. Illya hadn't seen that, but he seemed to have gotten the message all the same.

They waited.

Suddenly, there was a flash of movement behind Foyle, and Illya appeared, a gun to the back of Foyle's head.

"Tell your men to surrender their weapons."

Foyle froze.

Napoleon turned to the nearest THRUSH man, who was staring in horror at Foyle and Illya. Napoleon bestowed a charming smile on him.

"Do you mind?" he said, taking hold of the gun barrel before the man could react.

.. .. ..

"Let me wish you a safe and swift journey home," Tallens said, holding out his hand to shake Napoleon's. He turned to shake Illya's hand in turn. "And you, Mr Kuryakin."

Once Illya had arrived on the scene, Napoleon, Tallens and his men had made short work of taking back control of the submarine. Foyle and his accomplices were in the brig, waiting to face a court martial back in Britain, and an extended interrogation at the London UNCLE office. 

Tallens had given the order to dive as soon as he was back in control, and the sub had disappeared, undetectable from the ship. The captain had clearly been tempted to engage the THRUSH ship in a firefight, but he couldn't open fire on a ship that hadn't attacked. At least Napoleon had been able to reassure him that UNCLE would take care of it.

In the ten minutes before their transfer to the helicopter, Napoleon and Illya had shaken the hand of what felt like every man on the boat, finishing with the captain himself. Tallens had apologized very handsomely for once having suspected the UNCLE men. Napoleon himself was feeling guilty that his instinctive and unfounded dislike of the captain had ever given him false suspicions of his own. Now that they were leaving, he couldn't quite remember why Tallens had seemed to rub him up the wrong way.

Their next stop was the UNCLE office in Oslo. Then finally, almost twenty-four hours after leaving the Neptune, they were on an airplane bound for Amsterdam.

Illya leaned back in his seat, getting comfortable for the flight. He had a newspaper in his lap, but he hadn't opened it yet.

"Any plans for tomorrow?" Napoleon asked.

"Besides a thorough debriefing with Waverly and the obligatory trip to Medical? I do also have an appointment with Dr Fryers tomorrow afternoon."

"Dr Fryers as in your lovely lab assistant, Caroline Fryers?"

Illya ignored his teasing tone.

"She says she and the team have made significant process on the miniaturization of some of the key transmitter parts. I expect I'll be in the lab all afternoon. And you?"

Napoleon's social calendar for the coming week was already almost full. Like Illya, he'd made several phone calls from UNCLE's Oslo office. But there was one time slot he'd made sure to keep free.

"I was asking about tomorrow evening, in fact. I was thinking we should go out to dinner." He raised an eyebrow at Illya, and let a teasing note creep back into his voice. "Unless you have plans with the lovely Caroline?"

Illya gave him a quelling look. Napoleon grinned.

"So, any preferences? I should point out that it's your turn to foot the bill, but I do have one or two suggestions, if you'd like to let me choose..."

"Anywhere with a complete absence of ice and fire will suit me just fine," Illya said with feeling, and opened his newspaper.

Napoleon quite agreed.

"I'll bear that in mind."

They both settled down to read, and didn't say anything else until they swapped newspapers halfway through the journey.

The flight from Amsterdam to New York was an overnighter. Napoleon and Illya, both seasoned travelers, slept through the whole flight and woke up in time for breakfast.

As Napoleon was rearranging his carry-on luggage in preparation for landing, he came across the briefing documents he'd studied went he'd first been assigned the mission. He remembered sitting on the plane to Oslo, studying the photos of Cairns and Hagen, and wondering whether he'd get to them in time.

He sat there with the unopened folder on his lap for a moment, not moving.

Illya seemed to catch his somber mood, and turned to look at him.

"You know Cairns never dated?" Napoleon said quietly. "He used to say he planned to start when he turned forty and retired...and that his only regret was that he'd gone bald waiting!"

Illya's mouth twisted into a tiny, wistful smile.

"I remember." After a pause, he added, "He said he wasn't looking forward to leaving the field."

"Neither am I. I feel I'm at the top of my form. So was he." 

"That's why they make us leave now, before we get old and slow."

The breakfast cart arrived level with their seats just then, and the stewardess handed over a generous helping of fruit, toast, ham and eggs. They ate in silence for a while.

"I did a lot of thinking, out on the ice," Illya said. "For a while there I didn't expect to be coming back."

Napoleon winced. It wasn't something he liked to think about. He turned to meet Illya's gaze. Illya shrugged, and returned to his meal.

"Anyway," he said more briskly, and with his mouth full. "Afterward, on the sub, I did some more thinking. And I've decided to ask for a transfer to Section VIII."

Napoleon spluttered out his orange juice. "What?"

For a few moments, he could only stare. Illya was looking at him with amusement. He took the plastic cup out of Napoleon's hand and placed it safely down on the tray.

"Did you really think I'd go out into the field on a regular basis with someone who wasn't you, Napoleon?"

"Well..."

Napoleon was forced to concede he didn't like the sound of that.

"Waverly will probably make you the head of Section VIII," he said. "Dr Hopperston will be retiring at the end of the year."

Illya shrugged. "We'll see." 

They both went on eating breakfast. After a moment, Napoleon laid down his fork. There was one question that had been burning in his mind for days.

"So that means you're definitely not going to Berlin?"

Illya looked him in the eye.

"You think I should?"

"No! At least -- " He hesitated. "I think you could do a very good job there, but -- "

Illya was watching him very closely indeed. Napoleon felt like some poor creature pinned on a slide under Illya's microscope.

"Personally, I'd rather you stayed in New York," he admitted finally.

Something tense in Illya's face seemed to relax. He returned to his reheated eggs and toast.

"I never had any attention of taking them up on that offer, you know," he said with his mouth full.

"No?"

"Why on earth would I want to return to Berlin? I'm not sure what the next decade will bring, but spending it on the opposite side of the world from you has never been part of my plans, Napoleon."

Napoleon couldn't suppress a smile. He raised his orange juice.

"Well, here's to the future," he said.

They clinked plastic cups.

Illya took advantage to reach out with his fork and snag a piece of watermelon from Napoleon's tray.

.. .. .. End .. .. ..

**Author's Note:**

> I've been interested in submarines since I was a child, and I've read a lot about them, so this fic should be fairly accurate, but I'd be very happy to have mistakes pointed out!


End file.
